


Off Record

by deathofaraven



Category: Professor Moriarty Series - Michael Kurland
Genre: Extended Scene, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, immediately post the Reichenbach short, minor series spoilers, smooches, there's only one (canonically ambiguous) bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29192385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: One last night before the end of what they know, and possibly the beginning of something new.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Off Record

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to explain myself, but I've got nothing. <3 I hope everyone's having a nice day and that you enjoy this fic!
> 
> \--  
> From Reichenbach:  
>  _Later in our cabin Holmes turned to me and asked, ‘what are you planning to do after we send our report?’  
>  I shrugged. ‘The world thinks I am dead,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I shall take advantage of that and remain away from public ken.’  
> ‘I, also, had thought of doing something of the sort,’ Holmes told me. ‘I’ve always wanted to travel to Tibet, perhaps speak with the Dali Lama.’  
> ‘A very interesting man,’ I told him. ‘I’m sure you’d find such a conversation fruitful.’  
> Holmes stared at me for a long time, and then said ‘Good night, Professor,’ and turned down the light.  
> ‘Good night, Holmes,’ I replied._

It was the pause before Holmes bid him goodnight that lingered with him long past when he’d hoped to be asleep. Moriarty had always prided himself on his ability to sleep, and wake, with ease and without regards to his current situation. He hadn’t thought, when Captain Preisner had directed one of his men to lead them to the only available cabin, that sleep would come with any difficulty. He was mistaken.

The bed wasn’t overly small, but they couldn’t lie shoulder-to-shoulder without introducing a measure of precariousness to their slumber. Moriarty had solved that potential issue quickly and without fuss—he’d rolled onto his side, as close to the edge as he’d dared, and brought his feet up until they were no longer pressed against the frame of the too-short bed. It was almost comfortable. _Almost_.

Across the mattress, Holmes was restless, constantly moving. First lying on his back, then his side, then at a slight angle. Grumbling and sighing. Tugging at the blankets until Moriarty was forced to drag them back in a feeble effort to stave off the night’s chill. At this rate, neither of them could hope to get any rest.

“Lie still,” Moriarty instructed without bothering to open his eyes.

Holmes flopped onto his back and, with a great huff of a scoff, appeared to do so.

It didn’t help. Disregarding that night on the ledge above the falls, Moriarty hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in ages. Personal feelings aside, it wasn’t an entirely comfortable adjustment. He was far too aware of Holmes beside him. Every breath, every slight movement. He could all-but _feel_ Holmes thinking, his brilliant mind whirring and clicking away beside him. Perhaps Holmes had found the situation just as awkward as he did.

(Neither of them made any effort to move away or rest in the cabin’s only chair, which, in hindsight, Moriarty supposed made a statement of its own.)

The silence stretched, still but for the distant groans of the ship with every roll of the waves. Again, as they often did, Moriarty’s thoughts returned to Holmes…and then to his prolonged pause. It was odd—for him. In the nearly twenty years he’d known him, Holmes had never been reserved in sharing his thoughts. He might wait until he’d formed a more concise opinion or could focus his thoughts, but he rarely hid it. What it had meant…Moriarty didn’t know. He considered that morning on the shore of the Bodensee, when Holmes had called him his friend, and all the long, long silences that had punctuated their words. The years of enmity, promises of ruination, and the occasional quiet moments of peace between. The quiet infatuation he’d never dared act upon. It was, probably, unwise to linger over any of it, regardless of how much it may have distracted from an inability to sleep. Across the mattress, Holmes was unlikely to be thinking of anything beyond their case and what he intended to do next—if his thoughts strayed in Moriarty’s direction, he suspected they would only turn to imagined nefarious plots.

He supposed it wouldn’t have mattered even if Holmes _did_ think differently about…him, this, their current situation. The job had finished. They would, as always, go their separate ways when they docked the following evening.

“Where will you go?” Holmes enquired, tone carefully neutral. Moriarty didn’t need to open his eyes to know that _Holmes’s_ eyes were fixed on the darkened ceiling, lost in thought.

“I hadn’t decided.”

It was the truth. Returning to London and the work he had there had a necessary sort of appeal that never entirely faded. But it wouldn’t feel the same with Holmes away, doing who-knew-what. Engaging in a bit of wandering of his own also carried a certain intrigue: the answered call of curiosity and the freedom to move about without any watchful eyes…it seemed a shame to miss such a rare opportunity when it presented itself. Perhaps he’d find something to aid in his astronomical study.

 _We worked well together_ , he wanted to add. But it was a trite observation and Holmes would not have appreciated it. Moriarty wasn’t entirely certain what avenue of discussion he hoped to open with it either, though he knew where it would lead. _“You weren’t up to your usual deviltry,”_ Holmes would say and it would spark into a debate about law and morality that would leave Holmes annoyed and Moriarty exhausted. As much as those debates could occasionally be called enjoyable…Moriarty liked _this_ , the peace they rarely had.

(And if he wanted, with a longing that seeped down into his fingers and pressed outwards in his throat, to reach out and touch him, no one needed to know.)

They laid in silence once more. From the other side of the ship, a lonely bell tolled the end of the watch. _Midnight_. Holmes shifted once more before roughly flumping onto his side. His foot slipped as he moved and Moriarty couldn’t withhold a sharp hiss of pain as Holmes’s foot made contact with his shin. Something was grumbled in his direction—he _elected_ to take it as an apology—before they attempted to settle in again.

Moriarty’s thoughts eventually began to grow hazy with sleep. He _would_ miss Holmes’s companionship when they parted ways, he realised. Both his presence and his conversation, if not how hard he could accidentally kick. _He_ was one of the few unchanging variables within the conundrum of whether to return to London immediately. His constant. Everything else was subject to potential change, except—except—

What felt like a sliver of ice against his leg interrupted his thoughts. He jerked back with a grunt of protest, fighting a shiver. Holmes’s foot, he realised as he opened his eyes to frown at the slightly more solid stretch of blackness that was the back of Holmes’s head. Probably moved as he drifted off.

With a disapproving sigh, Moriarty settled back into his previous position and closed his eyes. Willed himself to relax. _Right then_.

Constancies aside, he supposed his research was one of the larger factors he needed to take into consideration. Perhaps the house on Crimpton Moor was a better solution for the time being. It was isolated enough to guarantee his privacy until he chose to…officially return to the land of the living, and well stocked for astronomical observations. He could contact those closest to him from there; give them an opportunity to join him if they wished. (Write up an explanatory account of the last month? No; perhaps in the future.) Besides he’d be free enough, for a few months at least, that he’d still have the option to engage in some wandering if it abruptly held greater appeal. And—

 _Cold_. Again. This time he managed to stifle his protest before it slipped out, but he couldn’t stop his shudder. He glared into the gloom, all traces of sleep gone. Holmes lied still, breathing slow. If he wasn’t asleep, Moriarty couldn’t tell. With a deeply suspicious frown, he closed his eyes once more.

He’d lost his train of thought.

Reminding himself that he had plenty of time to decide what to do next, Moriarty focused on slowing his breathing. He systematically relaxed, focused on letting go of tension in his limbs and then through the rest of his body until all was languid and calm. Peacefully hazy.

He nearly cursed, jolting away from Holmes’s cold feet yet again. Maybe the answer to all his frustrations lied in shoving Holmes _off the bed_. He couldn’t possibly be unaware he was doing this.

Moriarty had barely had the thought when he felt another tentative press of cold feet against his ankle. Scowling, he abruptly sat up, tugging Holmes onto his back with a quiet snarl: “Damn you, Holmes, you’re doing it on purpose.”

There wasn’t a porthole in the wall of the cabin, but, even without a bit of light to see by, Moriarty thought Holmes seemed far too amused. Instead of feigning sleep, Holmes stifled a chuckle in his throat. He didn’t attempt to extricate himself from half-beneath his occasional nemesis.

“Is it so offensive to warm oneself?” Holmes enquired, a suppressed smile seeping into his pseudo-innocent tone.

“Only when you rely on trickery to inflict your poor circulation on your bed-mates.” He, wisely, refrained from sarcastically asking if Holmes was aware of the concept of socks.

“ _You_ ’re offended by my trickery?”

“ _Yes_. You glut yourself upon it far too often.”

Holmes snorted indelicately. “And your reliance on it in your criminal pursuits is _what_ , precisely?”

Moriarty felt himself bristle and bit back a too-sharp admonishment. He wasn’t willing to play out that routine. He was too tired and thus lacked the patience to do so. And, as he stared down at the blobby darkness of Holmes’s face, he realised he didn’t particularly want to go back to… _this_. Fighting. Not now. Not with such a lack of an audience. There were other things he’d prefer to say—some were long overdue (a twenty year old apology for Miss Moys lingered at the back of his mind, but that would be cruel and wouldn’t achieve anything) and others that were too recent and unspeakable.

The realisation of the position he’d inadvertently put them in did nothing to help his hesitation.

But Moriarty had allowed too much time to pass without some form of rebuttal. Confusion had begun to sour the lightness of Holmes’s amusement; he could feel him overthinking the silence. New words, questions, beginning to build in his throat.

 _Damn him_. If Holmes wanted to keep throwing the source of his supplementary income in his face, then why not add _gross indecency_ to the charge list? Now, as they were preparing to part, especially if it stopped whatever thought Holmes was preparing to voice?

He kissed him, missing his mouth just a little to press a peck to the corner of his slightly-too dry lips. He corrected himself immediately. Softly brushed his lips against Holmes’s until he found a better angle. Kissed him slowly, carefully, as if every eventuality between them might shatter if he dared do more. Elation and heartbreak welled up in equal measure behind his lungs as he realised that Holmes…wasn’t reacting. Whatever nonsense he had been inclined to engage in had faded into utter stillness. _Oh_. He tried to pretend it didn’t sting as he began to pull away—

And Holmes caught his lips. Hand gentle against the back of Moriarty’s neck to tug him back down. A note of surprise forever lost between them. Holmes kissed as if he’d never had any practical experience—clumsily, too rough and too light all at once. Fingers uncertain in Moriarty’s hair and pulse thudding, too-hard, where Moriarty’s fingers rested against his neck. It took a moment for Moriarty’s brain to slip from surprise and catch up. He met him earnestly, with quiet, frustrated affection. Savoured every press of lips and hesitant touch. (He resisted his urges to straddle Holmes’s hips, to touch him in earnest, and to mark his neck—it seemed unwise, despite the appeal.)

He felt Holmes shiver in breath against his lips when they finally slowed to a stop, much too brief of a kiss for anything other than sensibility. Started to speak and immediately decided against it. It didn’t call for an explanation, did it?

Moriarty laid back down, lighter despite the continued buzzing of his thoughts.

Silence, again. Somehow louder in wake of their kiss, despite that there was nothing to hear beyond the walls of their cabin. It would make parting ways harder, even if only internally, he was certain. But…maybe that didn’t have to be an immediate option. They had time…didn’t they?

Holmes drew in a too-sharp breath, words beginning to form on his tongue.

“It has whatever meaning you decide to give it, Sherlock,” Moriarty murmured, anticipating him. When Holmes seemed to relax, added: “ _Good night_.”

“Good night again…James.” For all his hesitation, he sounded like he was smiling.


End file.
